


Echoes and Silence

by dugindeep (hotsauce)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Death, M/M, Mostly Gen, Post-Episode: s15e20 Carry On, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:42:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28177836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotsauce/pseuds/dugindeep
Summary: When his brother dies, the world goes quiet.Written for amberdreams for the 2020SPN_J2_xmaschallenge. Her prompt wasYou’re going to die in your best friend’s arms. / And you play along because it’s funny, because it’s written down (Siken)
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 14
Kudos: 121
Collections: 2020 Supernatural & CWRPF Holiday Exchange





	Echoes and Silence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amberdreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amberdreams/gifts).



> I tagged this as Wincest; in my head it is but there is nothing super obvious and it could be read as gen/gencest.
> 
> I listened to a lot of sad songs while writing this, especially the [Foo Fighters’ Home, from the Echoes, Silence, Patience & Grace album.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jA4Mmk1nfPg)
> 
> Big thanks to the Zoom Crew who helped me brainstorm some of this, especially to Ashtraythief and Zubeneschamali for beta.

When Dean's heart stops, Sam’s does, too. 

It’s a few dire seconds, then it rumbles in Sam’s ears. He feels more than hears it. Blood flows through his veins, he’s aware of it, but it’s secondary to the dead weight of his brother in his arms. The acrid, iron scent in his nose. Or the hollow space in his chest. 

He can’t see through the tears filling his eyes or the darkness of the barn. Doesn’t matter; he knows the image will be forever seared into his memories. His brother’s dead body, his whole world dearly departed and leaving Sam lonely and tired and on his own to start over. Again.

Praying to capture one lasting moment, Sam holds that slack face and feels his way to his brother’s mouth. Those full lips are warm against the cold flooding Sam’s body and he presses their mouths together, hopeful to breathe life into them for one final moment, gather one last kiss to take with him to the _after_.

There’s a burst of warmth in his chest spreading out into the emptiness that will fill him for the rest of his days. The only question is how many he has left. Not many, he gathers.

With one life went Sam’s.

  


. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  


The drive back is quiet. Everything is now, without the echo of boots following Sam into the bunker or the rumbling of a voice that’s worn a spot in Sam’s soul.

Even the dog’s steps are quiet as he follows Sam up one hallway and down the next. Sam’s on a quest for sheets and firewood, and Miracle is chasing down his own questions.

Sam mindlessly rubs the pup’s head and nods. A gentle _I know_ is buried in his throat at the nose nudging at his side after the Zippo sparks the burial.

They’re both still through the ceremony as yellow and orange blazes a wall of fire Sam can’t see through. Even if he could, there’s only one thing he wants to appear and it won’t. Everything disappears before him, burning slow as the sun falls in the West.

He won’t leave until every inch of light is gone, forcing himself to watch the shape of his brother crumble in the fire as if it didn’t already in that barn.

As if Sam isn’t crumbling right along with him.

  


. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  


The next day, Sam makes breakfast. And like the morning before, there are eggs and juice and coffee and toast.

Like no other morning, however, there’s just one of everything and nothing is the same. Oil pops in the pan as eggs cook and he feels the burn of each drop on his wrist. He stays close to the fire and holds tight to the first feeling that’s broken through the pain in his back.

There’s been a dull ache in the center of his spine for the last thirty-six hours—two thousand, one hundred and sixty minutes, he’s counted; there’s nothing else for him to do. The aching matches the hole in his chest and the one in his brother’s. Each burn of oil on his skin rolls up his forearm to compete with the phantom ache inside of him.

It’s no match, because when the toaster pops one solitary piece, the pain spikes through his back and splits between his lungs. And when he closes his eyes, he sees dark shadows across brittle hay, hears vamp growls and skin sliced on metal. He’s not sure if it’s the monsters or his brother.

The eggs burn before he can decide, so he abandons breakfast. He isn’t hungry anyway.

  


. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  


Research. That’s what’s gotten him out of every jam before. The Men of Letters never skimped on research and neither has Sam, so he gets to work and spends restless hours digging through tome after tome. There’s nothing else for him in this lonely bunker; not even sleep will join him at night.

His heart beats steady in his chest, a solid _thump-thump-thump_ , and he thinks he just may have an ounce of life left in him for this. He has a mission after all: find a spell, track ingredients, cross his fingers, wait.

He burns hours in the library and stacks of books barricade him into the silence of his search. This is a different kind of hunt, one to bring him back to his brother.

Coffee fuels him until midnight, then it’s a handful of cheap beers to pass the night. He’d rather get rid of the bottles now than stare at them each time he opens the fridge. 

There’s a bread-and-cheese sandwich around four in the morning, an old childhood staple on the rare occasions they had cheese. Or bread, for that matter. This time, it’s swiss, and he remembers watching his brother hem and haw over all the packages at the grocery store.

They’d argued gruyere, Sam’s pick, or American, another holdover from their youth no matter how cheap the ingredients were. Sam figured they had options—for once in their goddamn lives—so why not run head first into new choices?

There was a joke that Sam couldn’t even say gruyere. Sam told him to spell it. Then a laugh from each of them and rolled his eyes. Annoyed grumbling as his brother threw the orange block of slices back on the pile and lifted swiss with an eyebrow up in question.

That just may be the last decision they made. Together. In agreement. Sam thinks back on the barn and his dying brother doling out orders, as always, and Sam knowing he couldn’t agree.

_No bringing me back …_

Sam closes his eyes and thinks he hears that voice. He can definitely see those eyes asking, hell, pleading for Sam to move on.

When he looks around the library, there’s just empty stillness. Loneliness.

He needs his brother back … needs that companionship and love sitting beside him. Needs to hear that voice and the well-worn steps of boots Sam could never fill. 

Need to hear _anything_ other than the echoes of that night.

_… always ends bad._

Sam clenches his eyes and sighs, wet and broken. He was never one for moving on. Youth and bravado said he could, but this life, this brother, was always in the rear-view mirror.

 _Still is_ , he thinks, as he looks to the side and imagines another body sitting at the next table with his boots kicked up on top. There are rubber skid marks right there and Sam can just make out the shape of … 

Sam’s chest clenches; he still can’t say the name. But he sure as hell can imagine those long and lean legs and broad shoulders that carried the weight of the world—literally—and lived to tell the tale for anyone who would listen.

He just didn’t live long enough. There were a few more people to tell …

The throb in Sam’s back returns, pushing deep into his ribs, and he feels like his back is cut wide open. There’s nothing back there, though, because his spine is bare and his soul is gone, and he can’t even find a spell to put it back together.

Even if Sam could, you-know-who would kill him on first sight.

Sam smiles at the thought. If he died, then he’d have his brother back.

Not such a bad idea.

 _… always ends bad_ rolls around in his skull and he thinks maybe sleep is a better idea. At least he’s finally tired enough to try.

  


. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  


He thinks about making the calls, but he can’t find the words. His voice is hollow like his chest and he can’t catch his breath when he opens his mouth.

His mind can’t even piece together the letters. He knows there’s a D and an E and an A, but the next letter fades into all the others, and he refuses to finish spelling either of the two words he has to spit out.

Instead, he passes a few hours in his brother’s room. It still smells like him, or Sam may be drumming up that memory. Either way, he’ll take it.

Grief has burrowed deep, but is dulled when he looks at the pieces that remain: shotguns on the wall, messy blankets, empty beer cans, casefiles opened on his desk.

Miracle joins him to mourn and they lean against one another for support. Sam stares at the hallway as if his brother will suddenly return. He cracks a tiny smile thinking Miracle would make it to the door first, and there would be joy and excited hugs and well-deserved pets until Sam got his own.

It’s not just his brother in arms, but his partner, the one and only part of him that was still breathing all these years. The last remaining lifeline for Sam to push forward and now what? Was he going to live the rest of his life underground in this vacant bunker? Taking in sunlight only when Miracle needs walks?

Before he can decide, a phone rings and it’s that _other, other cell_ , which makes Sam scowl and perk up with interest all at once.

It’s the first words he’s heard since his brother’s last breath. _I'm down in Austin, and we've had a few bodies turn up minus their hearts._

Sam’s distracted long enough to think about how far Austin is and what time it is now and if he can bear to see and hear people that aren’t his brother …

 _A friend of mine, Donna Hanscum..._ the man goes on.

 _Ours, too,_ Sam thinks.

If there’s something he can do these days, then it’s helping someone out. So long as it distracts him from all the help he needs.

With that decided, Sam packs up a few things from his room, leaves some things behind. He also scopes out his brother’s and grabs a few memories to carry on. He can’t say goodbye to everything just yet.

Once he’s at the door, with sunlight just a few steps away, he thinks about what the bunker has meant for them. What it would be in the future. 

One last look and all the air is sucked out of the place. No one will be coming back to make this home. It hasn’t been for days. Not when there’s no life to fill it.

  


. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  


He finally finds company in the car as Seger, Skynyrd, and Zeppelin fill the time with more words than Sam’s heard in a week. The roads are long, but the rumble of Baby breathes a bit of life back into him.

He sleeps in the car when he runs out of steam, sliding over to the passenger side to close his eyes. It’s more home than any place he’s known, and he’s out in seconds.

He dreams of past hunts, his brother, that night at Stanford when he still can’t believe he said yes and went after that woman in white. It’s when he wakes that he finds the nightmare and has to push on to Fort Worth for the next pitstop.

  


. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  


Texas is warm, but Sam is still cold. It’s bright in the daytime sun even as he’s still operating under a cloud of silence and a shadowed barn.

Routine fills his mind as he adjusts his tie and jacket, flashes a badge, and awaits the sheriff.

There are pleasantries and details. Sam must share some—the sheriff claps his shoulder, a grand ole _sure am glad to have ya to help clean up this mess_ —yet he mostly just takes them in.

The sheriff’s running down the case while Sam reads the files and his fingers drag over words and piece clues together. He’s two seconds ahead of the sheriff explaining that a woman who bartends at a small watering hole went missing a month ago. Three male patrons have been picked off the last few nights. Not much to go by at the scene, except a _a heckuva lotta blood. Them boys sure weren’t coming back after whatever happened to those necks_.

Her body hasn’t been uncovered, but there was a lot of blood in her car, too, so it must be long past hope to find her. The sheriff considers themselves lucky they have these bodies to work with. Sam does, too, because a quick once-over tells him exactly what kind of monster he’s dealing with.

Next, Sam takes in the missing woman’s trailer and notices a lack of dust for a place that’s been abandoned for thirty days. No smell of rotting food or even dank, stale air that doesn’t move (and Sam knows that well; he suffered it the last few days of the bunker). 

There’s some kind of life happening in this space … it’s too clear to Sam, who’s been without it these days.

Like this closed case, Sam shuts the file and hands it back to the sheriff with a promise it’ll be settled come morning.

  


. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  


Sam eyes the full moon and nearly blinks at the brightness. It’s well past two in the morning and he’s still leaning against the back end of the trailer and waiting for the bartender to appear. He’d been camped out in the Impala until night fell and he could hide in the shadows.

The air is still until the hairs tingle on the back of his neck and instincts kick into gear. He sweeps around with a knife in one hand and his gun in the other as he takes a quick knee to the gut and he’s tossed against the trailer.

It’s the bartender alright, showing off her new fangs, as well as a few other werewolves on either side of her. Either she joined the pack or started it … Before he can figure them out, even before getting up on two feet, they pounce, scratch, and grapple.

It’s no match; he’s completely outnumbered. Especially when no one’s got his back.

Sam starts firing and a silver bullet hits the mark, one of the wolves recoiling with blood spraying. The other monsters flinch away before rushing right back in and tackling him to the ground, and Sam’s wildly swinging the knife until he hits a wolf in the chest and catches a moment to breathe and get on his feet again.

He waits for the attack and is shoved up against the trailer with hands gripped tight around his neck. He thrusts the knife into another gut and gets relief when the wolf drops to the ground. When he’s facing three more, he has no patience and picks the gun up to aim right for the head. He fires three quick shots off and the job is done.

His throat is burning and blood drips from his temple as adrenaline drains and he slinks against the trailer until he hits dirt. Surveying the wreckage before him, he thinks it was too close a call. He had expected the slim bartender with the plan to change her back with a spell he’d found in Rowena’s things. Instead, putting them down was the only option.

Staring down five bodies, he wonders if he really saved anyone tonight. If he really had any choice once he showed up.

He thinks back to the barn and knows it sure as hell was the only choice he or his brother had. And now he’s out here on his own and one wrong move could have been lights out for him, too.

A shock of ice runs down his spine and he wonders if that’s the answer now. Just like all the other names carved into a table, the only answer is mortality.

Heck, he’s pretty well dead already … maybe he just needs a blaze of glory to make it damn worth it.

  


. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  


He works his way east for a rugaru in Lafayette, Louisiana. It’s quick to piece together the deaths on a nature trail and he can dispatch the monster before it feeds on a woman out for an early morning run.

She’s scared as hell when Sam jumps into the trail to head her off before the creature can strike. He drives the demon knife through the rugaru’s chin and up into its brain with all the force he has in him. Then he drags the creature further into the mess of trees and broken logs to light it up.

Sam doles out the patented supernatural speech for the jogger, but he doesn’t answer any questions—she’s speechless. He offers her a few final suggestions, like avoiding shaded trails at odd hours. She gives him a dirty look for it, but he doesn't care.

What he cares about is the easy kill—too easy, really—and he wipes the knife off on his jeans as he marches back to the Impala.

  


. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  


Working his way up the food chain, he tracks a djinn to Gulfport, Mississippi. Like the ones before, this beast is holed up in an empty warehouse that’s been long abandoned along the coastline.

Sam finds three victims strung up with IVs for the monster to feed. They’re all pale, sunken skin and Sam wonders what kind of hallucinations they’re living. Or what kind he could have if he doesn’t make it out of this building.

His mind drifts to all sorts of possibilities starring his brother and just a few more years, hell even months or one fucking day to return all the words he never got to say in that barn. To thank him for saving his life at twenty-one and a dozen times since then. For dragging him along on this crazy ride and that having him was beyond worth it, even with all the drama and big bads they’ve encountered.

Hundreds of words speed through his brain before one of the victims moans and Sam shakes himself out of it. The least he can do is save them, then have his crisis on his own time.

He gets them loose and out to the car. One of them only had a day or two of torture and has enough energy to help, so it’s not such an ordeal, and Sam considers it a minor victory that they’re all breathing. He hands over the keys so they can get to safety, but he isn’t done. He marches right back inside and waits for the djinn to reappear.

It takes some time, but Sam doesn’t have anywhere else to be. When the monster returns and they’re face to face, its eyes and black, spiraling tattoos glow blue as he reaches for Sam. There’s a second of contact and Sam feels the jolt as it grabs his neck, but then he’s moving out of habit to stab the djinn in the stomach with the lamb’s blood-soaked knife.

The shock of the djinn’s manifestations last long enough for Sam to get a glimpse of a face, the one he sees when he tries to sleep. There’s faint laughter in Sam’s ears and a smile on that mouth, and Sam’s eyes are wet and hot as twists the hilt and drags it up, grinning in the monster’s crumpling face.

As the djinn’s poison fades, along with its own life, Sam shudders with guilt … for killing the monster or stealing a few seconds of a hopeful nightmare, he’s not sure.

  


. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  


In Wilmington, he takes on werewolves who’ve been building a pack by snatching up folks along the coast. Tourists and residents alike, they don’t seem to be picky.

He’s followed them to a bait and tackle shop just outside the Carolina Beach State Park and doesn’t bother trying to hide. He marches into the back storeroom with his gun held high and shoots without pause, taking out two wolves right away. Three others come at him and he’s quick with his knife to cut a few, but it must be superficial because once they’ve recovered from the initial sting, they’re coming right back for more.

Shelves are overturned as the wolves shove boxes at Sam to slow him down. Undeterred, he fires another few shots and silver bullets drop the one in front of him. He shoves the dead body into the other two and takes a few steps back to get ready for the next attack. They’re on him in seconds and he uses the last bullet on the one reaching for his knife. The wolf falls away, as does the knife, and he has just a few seconds to grab another one from the back of his belt as the last wolf grabs the blade on the ground and runs at him.

He doesn’t realize they’re swinging in tandem until there are two knives slicing through. Sam’s goes right into the wolf’s ribs and the other lands in Sam’s side. There’s a second piercing cut in his back, a phantom memory of another hunter and another fight that Sam lost.

He knows the blade cuts far too deep and he tries to hold the wolf’s hand in place to keep it from tearing more on its way out. He’s hopeful it can plug the hole until he gets help, but he knows he’d hit the monster dead center to the chest with pure silver. For once, he curses his sure aim because there’s no hope for staying upright and the wolf drops like a pile of bricks with the knife dragging out just as painfully as it went in.

Sam presses both palms to the wound as he falls to his knees. The room spins and so does his life as his back hits the ground.

His breathing catches and his heart thumps behind his ribs as fear takes over and he wars with himself.

This is what he wanted, isn’t it?

Go out on a hunt, just like his big brother. Take up the good fight until it got the best of him. It sure as hell did tonight.

The floor is cold like the night, but his blood is warm as it pools around him. His hands do little to stop the flow and he thinks he hears the harsh, broken way he’s forcing himself to breathe. The first real sounds that cut through the static of life without his brother.

Suddenly, there’s a heavy _whoosh_ of wind circling him and the snap of pictures flipping past him like a scrapbook in a storm. Every page whips by so quickly all he can see are passing snaps in time like the impala on rain-soaked roads.

A sharp smirk.

Flashlights on road maps.

Dark, hooded eyes in shadowed hotel rooms.

A pearl-handled gun.

Freckled skin under his hands.

Initials carved in wood and a toast of whiskey.

Pale pink lips smiling shakily. Forming the plea: _I need you to tell me …_

Sam opens his mouth and his teeth are trembling and his breath is wet and warm in his throat. He mouths, _It’s okay_ like he did on that night.

Air escapes him as the room falls silent. Just like the last month has been. There’s a thread of comfort drawing itself over the tremors of his bones.

Green eyes flash and he thinks, _You can go now_. So, he closes his eyes and does.

  


. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  


The light is blinding and he has to blink through sudden brightness overtaking the shadows of the bait shop. Then his breath catches and his chest aches, but not like after the barn. His chest isn’t echoing the emptiness of his heart; it’s blossoming at the sight before him.

Miles of forest spreads out around them, brilliant greens and oranges and yellows, boasting more life than Sam knows what to do with after being without for so long.

Dean smiles at him, warmer than the sun has ever been. Murmurs, “Hey, Sammy.”

Sam steals a few more quiet moments to take it all in. It’s hard to say—the one thing he hasn’t repeated since that night—and he has to force it out. Still, his voice is just above a whisper; he’s afraid to crack this dream if he speaks too loudly. “Dean.”

Dean’s face breaks open along with his arms and he tugs Sam into a hug. Sam thinks it may just be the first authentic moment of consciousness he’s had in weeks, even if this is the afterlife.

He’s suddenly overwhelmed with all he can feel under his fingers: Dean’s jacket, his neck, his hair … not to mention the heat of his body pressing into Sam’s and clutching him tight. And he can hear Dean’s breathing and the soft mumble of gratefulness to be reunited. It’s crystal clear without the fuzzy silence that’s been following Sam around.

Sam even hears the birds chirping in tall trees and the creek flowing beneath them, and he doesn’t think there has been anything so peaceful to listen to.

When Dean turns him to the water, they take in the view with Dean’s arm strung around Sam’s shoulders and Sam hunching down into his brother’s hold. Sam breathes deep and he can smell the fresh air, grass, and water. He can hear the thunderous beating of his own heart, life and soul kicking again. And he can even feel the cool breeze on his cheeks, the tightness of his own smile, and tears threatening to break until he leans in and gets the first touch of his mouth to Dean’s skin. Just a quick kiss to his jaw, but there’s an instant jolt to his heart and he knows he’s right where he belongs. Where he always has.

Dean moves to kiss Sam’s forehead. He keeps his lips right there to say, “Didn’t expect you so soon.”

Sam shrinks and fumbles to reply. “Yeah …“ He has to clear his throat; speech is still foreign in his mouth. “I, uh …”

There’s the feel of Dean’s smile on Sam’s skin, and Sam’s heart beats deep and steady. “I ain’t complaining.”

He can’t find the words. Maybe because he lost a lot of them since the barn. Or because he knows Dean will read him the riot act for hunting so recklessly. For giving up so quickly. For not following orders. Sam knows he deserves the lecture and all of Dean’s judgment.

Still, Dean seems to know what to say to ease them into it. “We’ve got the rest of … eternity, or whatever, together.” He chuckles, scruffs a hand through Sam’s hair, and smirks. All crooked and wise, like Sam had always savored. “You can tell me all about it later.”

Sam loses a few tears at the idea.

 _Eternity together_.

He didn’t imagine he’d have that, let alone Dean back. And now he’s got it all. He thinks that maybe he deserves this, too.

They both do.


End file.
